


Eye for an Eye

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Betrayal, Implied/Referenced Eye Trauma, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-MAG 154
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 13:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: “If one of us is going to be a monster, I’d rather it was me.”Martin was wrong. Jon did make a choice.





	Eye for an Eye

Jon presses rewind. The tape never changes, can’t change, the words crawling under his skin, slipping towards his heart, sending it thudding, desperate and despairing. Each time hoping there is something he missed, something he’s misunderstood. Trust is a fragile thing. It wouldn’t be the first he’s crushed beneath the unbearable weight of knowledge. 

The tape runs its course, and this time Jon lets it, turning instead to the cup of tea on his desk. Letting the soft scrape of ceramic on wood fill the room as he pushes against the handle with a finger, rotating the mug. Guiding it from the position he found it, undisturbed liquid now rippling at the disturbance, before settling into a flat, dark plane. It’s long gone stone cold. Maybe that’s the only way it could go. 

Maybe this is the only way he can go.

But that’s what he wants, isn’t it? To lose the guilt, the pain, everything that claws at his throat, pointless words with nowhere to go, no way to express them. Not yet, at least. The tape recorder will run when it’s needed. When Jon wants to hear, to remember. Because guilt is never enough to stop him. And the only one who can make the decision is him.

A click, a hiss of static, and he wraps his hand around the cup, closing his eyes, grasping for the dregs of warmth, a whisper of something he’d lost before he’d realized he had it. Some part of him still screaming that there has to be another way. That this is another cruel lie, another unneeded sacrifice. But he’s tried. The knife lies bloody on the table, proof of his commitment, and a testament to his failure. Next to it, the bottle seems almost innocent, though its milky glass is stamped with black lettered warning. Take care. Wear goggles. Make sure wash stations are in working order. His finger slides along the peeling edge of the label, snagging as the door finally cracks.

He doesn’t need to look to know. But he looks anyway. He owes Martin that much, at least.

Even now, Martin smiles, hovering nervously in the doorway, tugging at his jumper, unsure of his welcome until Jon nods, and he shuts the door behind him. Jon can’t help but respond, smile creeping to his lips, the brittle edge of happiness breaking in his chest. This too, the Eye wants. And Jon can’t fight it. Not anymore.

“I miss you.” 

It isn’t what he’d meant to say, isn’t right, Martin’s progress stuttering, his shoe squeaking on the floor as he comes to a halt. Jon never gets it right. But maybe it’s enough. Or maybe it’ll be better, if Martin doesn’t understand. Even if selfishly, always selfishly, Jon wants him to understand. Needs it, more than the tentative smile on Martin’s lips, already fading as he catches sight of the knife.

“Jon, you didn’t—” 

A question they both know the answer to, but Jon’s grateful anyway. Each moment in Martin’s presence is a gift, a few more seconds of pretending it isn’t all coming to an end.

“I did. I tried.” His hand slips from the cup, going to his pocket, checking for the hundredth time the small bottle tucked there. 

“But it didn’t work.” Martin finally crosses to the desk, swaying before catching himself, shaking his head to clear a fog he thinks is just exhaustion, the stress of what he planned. Picking up the knife, turning it curiously, lips tightening as he sets it back in place. “And what’s that?” He nods at the bottle.

“Acid. Gertrude had it. She never tried to use it, from what I can tell. But she was always so prepared.” 

Jon doesn’t reach for the bottle, instead watching Martin as he blinks. Eyes growing heavy now, as he staggers towards the couch, collapsing there as Jon finally rises. Fighting leaden limbs, his own reluctance or the Eye’s, it hardly matters. It’s his own hesitation, when Martin shies away. His own determination, when he takes Martin’s hand, large and damp with sweat. Nervous. Of course he is. Jon can hardly blame him, even now. 

“I care about you. You know that, right?” Jon’s hand goes to Martin’s chest, forcing him to lie down. Straddling him, the bottle digging into his leg, too light for what it represents. Not yet, not yet. But soon.

“Jon,” Martin says, as Jon’s hands go to his face, a thumb stroking along the line of his cheek. It isn’t the way he used to say it. He’d always seemed too close, stifling in his attentions. Now each time they talk, he drifts further away. Abandoning his kindness, his affection, everything but his fevered determination to see this through. Maybe it is for Jon. It had been, once. And that’s why Jon has to do this. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. He can smell the tea on Martin’s breath, inhales deeply, wondering if he’ll ever smell it again. 

“What did you do?” Martin’s eyelids flutter, and Jon draws closer, marking the furrows in his brow, the way he still struggles for answers even now.

“You drugged me.” He says it like he can’t believe it. Is it because he trusted Jon? Or is it just because he didn’t think Jon would make a choice, would plan, would bring this nightmare to a horrible end. 

“You were going to drug me.” It’s not an accusation. How can it be, when Jon’s turned the betrayal back onto him? When all Jon had to do to win was give in? But Martin deserves to know, to understand that it’s only by cheating that Jon’s won this Pyrrhic battle. That it’s only by choice Jon will lose it all in the end. 

“How did you know? I thought—” 

His words are beginning to slur. They don’t have long now. Jon’s hands tighten on Martin’s cheeks, and he draws closer still.

“That I was too weak? I was.” The admission comes with a fresh surge of guilt, but it’s fainter than before, the memory curling sweetly around his tongue. Maybe it’s because this is for Martin. Or maybe he’s finally decided that he doesn’t care. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter now. Maybe it never did.

“You can’t. Jon, you can’t. I need to do this.” 

There are tears in his eyes. Will be still be able to cry, after? Jon hopes so. He wouldn’t want to take that as well.

“If one of us is going to be a monster, I’d rather it was me.” 

There’s more he should say, but the words will never come. So Jon relies on the only thing he has. The clumsy press of lips, tongue darting out to trace the cracks, the sharp edges of his teeth as Martin opens with a moan. His response is uncoordinated, but he isn’t unreceptive. Is this just a ploy, a way to use what Jon knows against him? He hates that he thinks it, and hates more that it might be true. He hates that he doesn’t know, because Martin doesn’t know either, tangled up in watching and longing, and the sanctuary of turning away. Still, Jon kisses him. Martin’s cheeks are rough with stubble, warm and human, and Jon presses his face to Martin’s one final time. 

“I have a job to do, I have a duty to stop it, you can’t do this.” Martin’s hand clenches desperately, too weak to do anything but dig into Jon’s leg. 

“I listened to the tapes. A powerful artefact of the Eye. Who better to control it than me? Who knows, I might even survive.” Jon sits back, watching Martin carefully for signs the drugs are taking effect. The dose is right, he knows it. And the eye drops will numb anything that might slip through. All he needs is for Martin to stop struggling. God, he doesn’t want Martin to stop struggling. 

“Peter—”

“Will do what he has to, given the options he has left.” The flare of anger at the name drives him to his feet, leaving Martin there as he goes back to his desk. The tea, the knife, the bottle, stood in an accusing line. He takes a breath, and turns back to Martin

“Fuck you.” Martin’s voice is thick now, barely clinging to coherency. “You always have to be the martyr, don’t you?”

“I know you probably hate me. But I’d rather you hate me and live.” There’s a finality to the statement. A severing of ties, a closing of doors. Nothing now to stop him from taking what he needs. But still he hesitates. Because Martin is still watching.

His eyes are barely slits, the weight of them bearing down upon Jon. All of Martin’s remaining attention, his sight, his anger and adoration. Entirely focused on Jon. Is that why he’s here? To have this intensity turned on him again? He’ll be the last person Martin sees. The thought is bitter, and he drinks it in all the same.

“I won’t hate you. I can’t.”

Jon’s throat is thick with a feeling he can’t name, as Martin forces his muscles to contract, to fling his arm out in clear invitation. One last time, his eyes open wide. Christ, they’re a beautiful sight.

“Don’t you dare leave,” Martin says. Half-command, and half-plea. “You owe me that much.”

That much, and so much more. So he goes back to Martin, gives his hand a squeeze, before turning away again. Not looking as Martin’s eyes fall shut, and the silence covers them both like a shroud, broken only by the slow sounds of Martin’s breathing. Once more he reaches for the cup of tea, and downs it in one gulp. There’s time enough for him to work, before it takes effect. And it’ll be easier to stay, if he sleeps. 

“I won’t leave,” Jon says, an empty promise to an empty room. “Even if you do.”

He takes the acid from his desk. He knows what he has to do.


End file.
